


The Only Course of Action

by TsarinaTorment



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo: Scott Edition [7]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Broken Bones, Family, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt Scott, Hurt/Comfort, Scott Whump, bridal carry, cradling someone in their arms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25919728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsarinaTorment/pseuds/TsarinaTorment
Summary: John’s job is to watch and listen, but sometimes he’s also the last resort.
Relationships: Scott Tracy & John Tracy
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo: Scott Edition [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841482
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	The Only Course of Action

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melmac78](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=melmac78).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
> 
> For "Bad Things Happen Bingo: Scott Edition", the prompt 'carrying someone in their arms' featuring a non-Virgil brother (requested by melmac78).

John was fully trained in the field, just like his brothers. He had to be – flexibility was a necessity in a small organisation like theirs. Like Alan, he specialised in space rescues, working in zero-g where one wrong movement, one accidental snare could kill him and the people he was trying to rescue in seconds, but he'd scraped up a respectable enough level of experience of Earth-based rescues, too.

That didn't mean he ever felt as comfortable on them. Experience was the greatest teacher of all, and when it came to experience in the field, he ranked below even Alan now. Really, that shouldn't matter. His primary role wasn't Earth-based rescues. Those weren't even his _secondary_ role – space rescues took that honour, for when Alan needed a little bit of backup or the rescue was close and simple enough to Thunderbird Five that a little trip EVA would sort it.

No, John's role in International Rescue was to watch and listen. Calls came in and he answered them, reassuring distressed, anonymous voices (not so anonymous, he remembered the names and faces of everyone who ever called) that help was on the way as he mobilised his brothers. Scott was commander, but John was dispatch – an arrangement that worked for both of them. Scott was impulsive, too impulsive to make the cold calls on which rescues to attend and which rescues were a lost cause. His elder brother knew that he didn't mobilise them for every call that came through, of course, but John never gave him the details of the rescues they didn't do and Scott never asked.

It wasn't just the victims he watched and heard. He watched over his siblings every time they launched, locating potential issues and sorting them out before those on site fell afoul of them, and most of the time, that was enough.

Sometimes, it wasn't.

Alan was on an asteroid mine with Kayo, helping a panicked crew repair their life support while Thunderbird Three supported them in the meantime. Thunderbird Two was in the Peruvian alps with Virgil and Gordon on board, assisting with a mudslide that had buried a village. Scott and Thunderbird One should have been with them, but another call had come in from the Himalayas – a small party had found themselves stranded on the peak of a mountain – and John had diverted his eldest brother to help them instead. The plan was for Scott to pick up the party, take them to safety, then go to assist Thunderbird Two with the long slog the mudslide would be.

John hated it when things didn't go to plan.

"Scott!" he called, the direct line to his brother's comm open. "Thunderbird One, are you receiving me?"

He wasn't panicking. He wasn't panicking _at all_. Panic was unnecessary, a hinderance in his role that he'd long since mastered. Except he was, because Scott was alone, approximately halfway down Malaku, and had suddenly stopped responding after letting out a single cry.

" _The line!"_

His altitude had dropped sharply, there had been a heart-stopping _crunch_ from Scott's end, and now there was nothing, no matter how much John tried to rouse a response. The comm channel was still open – John could hear slow, too slow, shallow, breathing – but that just made it worse. It was one thing being cut off by technology; it was another entirely to know he was getting through but still hearing no answer.

Thunderbird Two was almost as far away as it was possible to be, over on the other side of the world. Even at top speed, leaving immediately, it would take Virgil and Gordon two and a half hours to get there, but they still had their own rescue to complete – a long slog of a mudslide that would keep them tied up for at least another hour, if not longer. Alan and Kayo were even further away, time and distance wise, and likewise were tied up where they were until they finished the repairs. Between the two rescues, there were over a thousand lives at risk.

John wanted to say Scott was worth those lives, but that was the scared little brother in him talking. One life, no matter who it was, was not worth a thousand, and such a selfish act from International Rescue would jeopardise everything they'd worked for. None of his brothers would ever forgive him, Scott least of all.

He should contact the GDF, call in one of the many favours he had hoarded from Colonel Casey to get them moving, or even Lady Penelope and Parker, but the latter were in England and FAB1 would take too long, and the GDF – even with Colonel Casey on their side – couldn't mobilise without a pile of paperwork and other red tape. They, too, would take hours.

It was, at minimum, two hours before anyone could realistically get to Scott and the party he'd been trying to save.

Scott's suit telemetry told him two hours was too long. His heartbeat was too fast, his temperature too low, and red lights were flashing up all over the place, highlighting irreparable damage to the flight suit itself. He couldn't get the full picture from it, but he could get enough to know that Scott needed medical attention urgently, and was highly unlikely to regain consciousness.

John's role was to work as dispatch, surveying the availability of all personnel at his disposal and highlighting the most efficient solution from the options they had. Thunderbird Two was, at minimum, three and a half hours away from being able to assist. Thunderbird Three, ten. FAB1, seven. The GDF, depending on the speed of their bureaucracy, two. None of those were good enough.

Thunderbird Five, nine minutes to reposition, fifteen to descend. Twenty-five minutes total response time, accounting for the time it would take to enter and exit the space elevator.

Acceptable.

"EOS," he said, already moving for the controls to move his Thunderbird. "I need you to take over space monitor duty."

"Of course, John," the AI agreed – her existence was a blessing; with two other rescues as well, one of which requiring constant monitoring, without her there was no way John would have been able to leave Thunderbird Five. "How would you like me to address the authorities?"

"Use my face." They shouldn't do that – it was dangerous, and Scott had forbidden her from ever impersonating him again – but it was better than letting her existence slip out to the wider world.

"Should I inform your brothers about the situation?" she asked, and John thought for barely a moment.

"Once they're finished with their rescues," he said. "Or if they ask." They didn't need the distraction.

"I understand."

Strictly speaking, John should apply for permission to move his Thunderbird. There were many other satellites also in geostationary orbit, mostly GDF, and the shift from Tracy Island to Malaku was reasonably substantial.

There was no time for that. He'd pull strings later to deal with the fallout once Scott was safe. Thunderbird Five's thrusters engaged.

He spent the nine minutes familiarising himself with the layout of the immediate area, memorising Thunderbird One's current position, the location of the party, and his brother's suit telemetry, before equipping himself with everything he'd need for the descent and whatever he'd find down there. Helmet, with a full supply of oxygen. Grapple lines, as many as he could carry. Emergency first aid kit, Earth-rescue version.

All the while, he stayed on the line with Scott, trying to get some reaction from his brother and wishing he could ignore the ever more alarming readouts from his suit.

He continued to stay on the line as Thunderbird Five's braking manoeuvres completed and he charged into the space elevator, instructing EOS to lower it as fast as possible. The AI being Scott's firm ally on anything regarding safety, it wasn't much faster than his usual descents, but it was enough to cut a minute off of the predicted fifteen minutes as it latched onto a crag on the side of the mountain and the doors opened – only after some overrides, because it wasn't designed to let him out anywhere that wasn't deemed 'safe'. He was glad Brains had agreed to those as he fired a grapple at the cliff wall above him, another safety line latching him on the space elevator itself for added security, and let gravity take hold of him.

EOS had homed in on Scott's location signal when she'd lowered him, meaning that the crumpled blue figure was barely twenty feet below and to the left. Even for John, less experienced on Earth-rescues and general enemy of gravity, it was a simple enough feat to swing down onto the ledge where his brother lay.

Scott's helmet was smashed open like an egg – one of Grandma's eggs, where the shell went everywhere, rather than being neatly split in two. Instantly, John could see that that had saved his life, although with the air thin, it had deprived him of valuable oxygen in return. Blood stained the snow and protruding rocks. Head wounds always bled a lot, and as John crouched down by his brother he could see that this was another case of it looking worse than it really was.

That scale, of course, was subjective. There was still a large gash running along his temple and down his jaw, and a slight depression in the skull when John lightly probed through blood-matted hair with his gloved fingers. None of that was remotely _good_ , but Scott wasn't dead, and John clung to that knowledge as he continued his assessment, pulling out the medical scanner. He wasn't Virgil, couldn't diagnose injuries without the assistance of technology, but he was here and Virgil was the other side of the world, potentially still oblivious to what had happened.

Scott's left arm was bent at several wrong angles, and even John didn't need the scanner to tell him that there were multiple breaks. His clavicle had also snapped, but mercifully his spine and neck were undamaged, according to the scanner. His left leg had also broken – clean breaks to the tibia and fibula – but otherwise the flight suit had done its job well.

"Scott?" he called, scavenging a splint from his supplies to immobilise the arm and leg before he cautiously rolled his brother over, pulling him into his arms. Blood from the gash had drenched the right side of his face and it was with trembling fingers that John wielded antiseptic to clear it away. "Scott, wake up."

It was an exercise in futility; Scott was well past regaining consciousness. His body was limp against John's chest, across his knees, and they needed to move.

"EOS, remote pilot Thunderbird One to my location."

She didn't respond, but the roar of the VTOL was answer enough, Scott's beloved Thunderbird soaring into view. There wasn't room for her on the crag John and Scott were on, but the fast response craft was small and nimble enough to land on a larger area, about a hundred yards away.

"Is that close enough?" the AI asked him. "There is no closer landing location, but there is the option of leaving Thunderbird One in a hover closer to your location."

John looked at the terrain separating them. It was rough, but not unsurmountable. Dealing with a Thunderbird One in mid-air, where the wind could gust around and dislodge her at any moment, was ill advised in comparison.

"That's perfect, thank you, EOS," he assured her. A twist and he released the line still clipping him to the space elevator, looming above him but fundamentally useless at this point. "Retract the space elevator and return to regular geostationary orbit before the GDF notice we moved."

"F.A.B." The thrusters on the bottom of the elevator engaged, and John hunched over his brother as the clamps released their grip on the crag and the entire thing lifted up and away. Now he had to get moving.

First priority: get Scott to Thunderbird One and finish administering emergency treatment.

Second priority: pick up the stranded group, thereby completing the rescue.

Third priority… "EOS, find me a hospital for head trauma."

"Yes, John."

Third priority: get Scott and any other injured people to professional treatment as quickly as possible.

It was a simple plan, but the first hurdle was undoubtably crossing a hundred yards of craggy and snow-covered mountain with an unconscious brother to reach Thunderbird One and relative safety. The route didn't look too difficult, although the snow added an additional level of complication – Tracy Island had a wonderfully craggy volcano they'd all trained on, but snow just didn't exist there.

Transporting Scott across the distance was the main complication. None of his injuries would be exacerbated by being moved, but he was still tall and muscular – and John was straight out of orbit. Still, there was no real choice and John was a Tracy, just like the rest of them. Giving up wasn't in his vocabulary, not in any language, so with gritted teeth he slipped out from underneath Scott's limp body and repositioned himself so that he could slide his arms beneath Scott's shoulders and thighs.

A grunt of effort escaped him as he straightened, staggering backwards under the weight and colliding with the mountain behind him before he managed to find his balance. A trickle of snow slid down to land beside him, dislodged by the contact, and he froze, ears searching for any sound of further movement. Larger, heavier movement, whether it be boulders or snow.

There was none, and he dared to breathe a sigh of relief before looking down at Scott and readjusting him as best he could so that his head was cushioned against his shoulder rather than lolling limply, enslaved to gravity.

His head was still bleeding, fresh blood spilling over where John had cleaned the wound once already, and that was more than enough incentive for him to take a careful step forwards, staggering a little to keep his balance under the combined challenges of Scott's weight and gravity, followed by another, and another. Hurrying wouldn't do him any good at all; the terrain was treacherous and he'd proven several times at home that he could trip over his own feet if he wasn't paying enough attention. Falling, _dropping Scott_ , would be disastrous, so he ignored the instincts screaming that he had to hurry, that they were in danger, that Scott needed attention urgently, and took his time.

His line to Scott was, somehow, still open, his brother's slow, shallow breathing providing both background noise and something to focus on. As long as he was breathing, he was alive. John's grip on his brother tightened, pulling him in as close as he dared as he kept his slow, staggering pace towards the silver Thunderbird.

With the possible exception of Thunderbirds Four and Shadow, Thunderbird One was the Thunderbird John had spent the least amount of time in. Thunderbird Five was his home, and Thunderbird Three was often boarded for rescues, while Thunderbird Two was his ride whenever he _did_ go out on an Earth-rescue, but Thunderbird One? That was all Scott's, all speed and responsiveness. John was none of those things, had never cared for going fast or joyriding like his big brother did.

But for all that he hated gravity, he was surprisingly at home with acceleration – most likely because that was a necessary requirement to get into space in the first place – so in that regard, Thunderbird One didn't phase him at all. Therefore, it was with less trepidation about handling his brother's Thunderbird and more concern about his brother himself that he staggered his way up the boarding ladder and called up a jump seat to situate his still-limp big brother in.

The jump seats weren't designed for comfort, or indeed anything other than short hops when Thunderbird One had to take a passenger, but they did at least have additional straps that the pilot seat didn't. The Thunderbird couldn't carry injured like Thunderbirds Two through Four did, with room for a stretcher and the full medical kit to go with it, but she did still have the basics.

Enough straps to keep the patient immobile, a rebreather to supply oxygen, and equipment for some field stitches to temporarily close wounds until the professionals – or Virgil – got at them.

Time was still vital, not just for Scott but for the party still in need of pickup, so John had to work quickly, mopping away the blood from the gash and cleaning it to make sure nothing had got in the wound before stitching it up and placing a large gauze over it.

Scott still didn't respond, slack in the seat, and John swallowed once, allowing himself that one weakness, before he settled himself in the pilot seat and carefully brought them up into the air. Contrary to popular belief amongst his brothers, he _did_ frequently train on the sims – or at least, their Thunderbird Five equivalent – and while holographic controls didn't feel like the real thing, Thunderbird One responded to him contentedly enough.

Scott's plan had been to remote pilot Thunderbird One above the mountain while he himself grappled his way to the party to assist them in boarding. John knew that he couldn't do that – this rescue was not going to be as flawlessly smooth as perhaps the stranded people were hoping – so he was left with the slightly cruder option of taking Thunderbird One high up, until he was above the mountain, and lowering the cargo net.

Technically the cargo net wasn't for humans, but there was nothing else in Thunderbird One's arsenal that he could confidently use in the situation. He wasn't Scott – or Alan, or any of his brothers with their Earth-rescue experience – but he was a problem solver. It was a bonus that none of the hikers complained about the unorthodox nature of their rescue – and that none of them were injured, just cold from the exposure to the elements for too long. Some foil blankets, warm drinks, and reassuring words (easier done from space, but John just pretended they were holograms and not living, breathing warm bodies until the stutter vanished) and he was back in the pilot seat, glancing back worriedly at Scott before punching the fastest Earth-Thunderbird in the fleet towards the local hospital.

They were expecting him, thanks to EOS, although there was some minor confusion when they believed it was _him_ they'd been talking to and John scrambled to pretend he knew what their conversation with EOS-as-John had entailed while the AI filtered a recording through his helmet. The hikers disembarked under their own steam, being dragged inside by the kind doctors for assessment, but it fell on John to get Scott out.

It was easier to pick him up the second time around. Thunderbird One was a far more stable place to be than halfway down a mountain, so John had less to worry about with his balance or feet, and Scott being in a chair made him much easier to slip his arms under him and lift him up. He held him close, grip almost possessively tight as he carefully made his way down the boarding steps.

No longer wearing his helmet, Scott's breathing wasn't a steady sound in his ear. Instead he focused on the sensation of breath tickling his jaw from where Scott's head rested in the crook of his neck and the rise and fall of his chest promising that he was still alive. A large part of John was reluctant to let go again, his hold lingering as he gently set Scott down on the offered stretcher; not because he didn't trust the doctors to help Scott, but because letting go meant being left blind.

Normally when a brother was hospitalised, John was up on Thunderbird Five, obtaining access to the hospital's cameras, systems, and keeping track of everything to do with his brother until visitors were permitted – at which point he either came down, if it was serious, or metaphorically handed over watch-duty to his family on Earth and began working out what had gone wrong and how to make sure it didn't happen again.

John wasn't on Thunderbird Five this time. John was in Nepal, watching his brother being hurried into the building, away from him, knowing that there would be no more news for him for some time. EOS was amazing, but John had always done that bit himself, and with her still handling two other rescues, hacking into a hospital would not be on her priorities.

Scott was taken inside, and John was left standing alone underneath his brother's Thunderbird, unsure. What was the procedure now? What did his brothers do when they were left alone, unable to follow? Did he stay with the Thunderbird until someone else arrived, or did he go in and sit in the waiting room, closer but still too far away?

His comm sparked to life. "John!" Virgil. Worried Virgil. This was something he could handle. John took a breath and answered.

"Receiving you, Virgil."

"EOS just told us about Scott," his brother started, confirming John's suspicions. "What's his condition?"

"His left arm, collarbone and leg are broken," John reported, feeling some twisted comfort in being able to fall back on facts. "He's also suffered a head injury. The hospital staff have just taken him in for treatment."

"Conscious?" Virgil demanded, and John shook his head. The worry on the holographic face deepened, frown lines clearly visible. "Gordon and I are clearing up here. We'll be with you as soon as we can."

"F.A.B." Two and a half hours until they arrived. Two and a half hours of not knowing, of waiting in silence with nothing to distract him.

His glove was red. Scott's blood. He swallowed.

He definitely wouldn't get any information waiting out by Thunderbird One. Slowly, he walked out from under her shadow, bringing up the remote controls to lock her down and hearing the robotic hiss of the boarding ladder retreating before the cargo bay doors swung shut with a barely-there clunk. Satisfied that the Thunderbird, at least, was dealt with, he strode towards the main door of the hospital.

IR blue was a language all on its own. He didn't even need to dredge up what little Nepali he knew without the help of a translator to explain why he was there or hope they spoke a mutual language. As soon as they saw him, he was ushered through into what was clearly a waiting area, complete with a machine that no doubt served bad coffee. John declined a drink before settling down in a corner, away from the doors but where he could see the entirety of the room, to wait.

Inactivity did not suit John at all. While his suit had the most technological capabilities out of all of them, it didn't lend itself to some of the less authorised access he liked to obtain, and even if he could, hacking into the hospital while he was _in_ it was just begging to be caught, no matter how good he was. Likewise, most of what he could do was based on the secret side of IR they didn't let the public see, and even taking back mission control from EOS was inadvisable, leaving him with nothing to do but sit still and try not to stare at the blood on his glove.

In a way, he was glad that his younger brothers weren't with him. While he wasn't Scott, didn't distract himself from inner turmoil by big brothering anyone he could, especially his own younger brothers, there was still a mild compulsion to put on a brave face for them, reassure them that things weren't as bad as things seemed. On the other hand, if they were there, he wouldn't be _alone_.

He didn't even have his phone. He didn't need it on Thunderbird Five, his Thunderbird linked in to everything without the need for something that needed frequent charging and didn't like a lack of gravity. No phone, no tablet, just the limitations of his uniform-based comm and blood on his glove.

He should probably wash that off. Realistically, he knew there wouldn't be any news yet; it took time to reset bones, never mind the brain scan and whatever would need to be done from that. The maximum five minutes it would take him to locate a bathroom and clean his glove would not run any risk of him missing some vitally important news.

John didn't move.

He was still there, staring at the blood, when the roaring engine that could only be Thunderbird Two came into earshot. Virgil tore into the room a few minutes later, Gordon hot on his heels, and suddenly he was bracketed by younger brothers. Neither touched him, but something warm settled in his chest.

_Not alone_. He wasn't alone anymore.

"No news?" Gordon asked, his voice telling John he already knew the answer.

"Not yet," he confirmed. Gordon slumped, amber eyes flicking around the room as if hoping news would miraculously appear.

"Your glove," Virgil said. He spoke quietly, his worry for Scott bleeding through, but his intent was clear. John balled the hand into a fist. "We'll let you know if we hear anything."

It was a clear demand, but it was what John needed to move, dragging himself to his feet and belatedly feeling the drag of gravity and his too-rushed descent. His hip hit a table and he stumbled, but Virgil was there, holding him up.

"You okay by yourself?" Gordon asked, openly concerned.

_No_. "I'll manage."

He made his way out of the room, hand trailing along the wall for stability, following the signs to the nearest men's bathroom and sagging against the sink. His reflection looked back at him in the mirror, gaunt and pale. Nothing particularly unusual, considering his lifestyle. A lack of both sun and regular sleep, on top of his naturally pale complexion, frequently left him looking sickly. His brothers were reluctantly used to it. John didn't spend much time in front of a mirror.

Tearing his eyes away from his reflection, he slowly put his glove under the faucet, letting the water gush out as his movement was detected. It quickly ran red, picking up Scott's blood and swirling it away, down the drain. He watched it, not interrupting, for a minute before beginning to rub away where it had dried and clung to the ridges in his uniform. Only once it was clean did he stop, holding it out under the dryer to blast away the molecules of water clinging to it in the blood's place.

News took another hour to arrive. By then, Virgil had poured himself a cup of the coffee, making a face but drinking it nonetheless, while John had played it safer with a teabag and hot water for a passable drink. Penelope wouldn't have agreed, but John needed the caffeine. Gordon had stuck with water, and seemed to have the cup in his hands mostly to have something to occupy them with. The water was long since drunk, and the cup had been methodically torn to pieces.

"International Rescue?" The doctor's English was halting but understandable. He was looking at John, presumably recognising him as the one to bring Scott in.

"How is he?" he asked, pulling himself to his feet. The doctor frowned at him in concern and he remembered the pale, gaunt face in the mirror. No doubt a point of concern for a medical professional. To John's relief, he refrained from commenting.

"He will be fine." Beside him, he heard Gordon sigh in relief, both his younger brothers sagging in his periphery. "We have set all the broken bones. The cut is stitched and his skull repaired. You can see him now."

John knew better than to expect to see Scott awake, so he wasn't disappointed to find his brother still unconscious when he was led into the room. Behind him, Virgil made a beeline for the medical information stored at the end of the bed, but John left him to it, instead approaching his brother.

A large chunk of his hair had been shaved off, which John knew his brother wasn't going to be happy about, and what remained stuck out oddly from the bandages, giving Scott a dishevelled look. Stitches and gauze – no longer John's field treatment, but professional grade – covered the gash down his face, while his arm and leg were wrapped in cast.

Somehow, he looked worse now than he had done on the mountain. John wasn't tactile, not like his brothers, but he found himself reaching out for Scott's uninjured shoulder. As he made contact, an arm snaked around his own shoulders. Startled, he looked sideways to see Gordon, a small smile on his face.

"He'll be fine," Virgil said from his other side, and John glanced across at him before returning his attention to Scott, motionless on the bed. "The brain scans all came up clear. Once he regains consciousness it'll be safe to take him home, and then you won't be able to escape fast enough."

Virgil wasn't wrong; John much preferred to tackle a grounded Scott from the safety of space, where he could mute him when he got too annoying.

That was in the future, once Scott was awake and John was fed up of his complaining. Right now, John was where he needed to be – by his brother's side.

**Author's Note:**

> Tsari found Bad Things Happen Bingo and immediately got herself a card to use on Scott. To turn it into an actual game, I'm asking people to pick one of the prompts and a not-Scott Thunderbirds character to write him with and writing based on what I get! [You can see my card on my fanfiction tumblr](https://tsarisfanfiction.tumblr.com/badthingshappenbingo) alongside prompts I've already received if you want to join in the fun (contacting me via tumblr or comment is both fine)! Most of the prompts have had one character requested already, but I'm always up for another (and sometimes it's adding a second character that gives me the spark)!
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Tsari


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